Breakable You by Brian Morton Page B
Authors: Brian Morton
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Sagas, Family Life, Domestic Fiction, Novelists
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broccoli with garlic sauce in front of the TV.
After turning on the TV, she usually tried to remain respectable by watching
The NewsHour
on PBS, but after ten minutes she would inevitably switch to a rerun of
Friends
or
Law & Order
. Tonight she watched
Law & Order
for half an hour, wondering idly, as she always did, whether Sam Waterston was unattached.
She cleaned up the kitchen, turned off the TV, and finally managed to drag herself into Maud's room and start writing. She started by describing her sessions with the clients she'd seen that day, and somehow this led her to return to the subject of what it had been like to see Adam. Writing randomly, directionlessly—just trying to keep her pen moving across the page for a few more minutes—she found herself writing about the day she met Adam, in 1966. Thirty-seven years ago. She thought it might be interesting to write down everything she could remember about that day.
She was still writing when the phone rang. Through caller ID, which still seemed like magic to her, she knew who it was. It was Patrick.
She didn't answer. She wanted to talk to him, but she didn't want to talk to him now. She wanted to wait until she was feeling stronger, more whole.
The phone stopped ringing. He didn't leave a message. A minute later it rang again. It was him again.
There never is a right time, of course. It wasn't as if she could wait for a time when she'd feel whole again. That time would never come.
She picked up the phone.
"Hello, Patrick."
There was a pause, as he took a moment to understand how she knew who was calling.
"It's really you," he said.
"It's really me. More or less."
There was a silence.
One of the things she remembered now about Patrick was that he wasn't a talker. She who believed in the talking cure had been in love with a man who never talked.
"How are you, Ellie?" he finally said.
"That's a big question to answer after thirty-seven years."
"I guess it is."
"Are you still a union guy?"
"Still a union guy. Are you still a writer?"
"No." It made her sad to say no. Made her feel as if she'd let him down.
"How's Adam?"
She didn't know if she wanted to tell him that she and Adam weren't together anymore. It was presumptuous, she knew, for her to feel sure that Patrick was reaching out to her in more than just a friendly way, yet she did feel sure. Telling him about Adam would be like opening the door to him, and she didn't know if she wanted to open the door. What she and Patrick had had was so far back in the past that they weren't even quite the same people anymore. At least she wasn't quite the same.
She didn't know if she had the strength to heave her heaviness—her bulky body and her bulky soul—into the effort to begin a new life.
Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
…
"Adam is doing well. At least he seems to be. We separated a year ago."
"I'm sorry," he said, but she knew he wasn't.
"Are you still with Diana?"
"Yes. We're still together. Sort of. It's a long story."
She was disappointed.
"I'm happy to hear from you, Patrick," she said, "and I'm also curious about why you're calling me now. What's going on?"
"My daughter's going to NYU. My older daughter. She's a freshman. I'm going to be visiting her soon. I thought that if I was in New York, maybe we could finally have that cup of hot chocolate. It'd be a little late, but…"
She wasn't sure she wanted to see him. More precisely, she wasn't sure she wanted to be seen. Patrick was surely imagining her as the reedy soft-souled girl she'd been at twenty-two. She didn't know if she wanted him to see her as she was, round and saggy. A human beanbag.
A picture of what it would be like to see him flashed across her mind. She saw him waiting on some street corner, smiling and eager, and, then, on first catching sight of her, looking stunned, and struggling to hide his disappointment.
Of course he would try to take account of the years—try to draw a mental portrait of her, like one of
After turning on the TV, she usually tried to remain respectable by watching
The NewsHour
on PBS, but after ten minutes she would inevitably switch to a rerun of
Friends
or
Law & Order
. Tonight she watched
Law & Order
for half an hour, wondering idly, as she always did, whether Sam Waterston was unattached.
She cleaned up the kitchen, turned off the TV, and finally managed to drag herself into Maud's room and start writing. She started by describing her sessions with the clients she'd seen that day, and somehow this led her to return to the subject of what it had been like to see Adam. Writing randomly, directionlessly—just trying to keep her pen moving across the page for a few more minutes—she found herself writing about the day she met Adam, in 1966. Thirty-seven years ago. She thought it might be interesting to write down everything she could remember about that day.
She was still writing when the phone rang. Through caller ID, which still seemed like magic to her, she knew who it was. It was Patrick.
She didn't answer. She wanted to talk to him, but she didn't want to talk to him now. She wanted to wait until she was feeling stronger, more whole.
The phone stopped ringing. He didn't leave a message. A minute later it rang again. It was him again.
There never is a right time, of course. It wasn't as if she could wait for a time when she'd feel whole again. That time would never come.
She picked up the phone.
"Hello, Patrick."
There was a pause, as he took a moment to understand how she knew who was calling.
"It's really you," he said.
"It's really me. More or less."
There was a silence.
One of the things she remembered now about Patrick was that he wasn't a talker. She who believed in the talking cure had been in love with a man who never talked.
"How are you, Ellie?" he finally said.
"That's a big question to answer after thirty-seven years."
"I guess it is."
"Are you still a union guy?"
"Still a union guy. Are you still a writer?"
"No." It made her sad to say no. Made her feel as if she'd let him down.
"How's Adam?"
She didn't know if she wanted to tell him that she and Adam weren't together anymore. It was presumptuous, she knew, for her to feel sure that Patrick was reaching out to her in more than just a friendly way, yet she did feel sure. Telling him about Adam would be like opening the door to him, and she didn't know if she wanted to open the door. What she and Patrick had had was so far back in the past that they weren't even quite the same people anymore. At least she wasn't quite the same.
She didn't know if she had the strength to heave her heaviness—her bulky body and her bulky soul—into the effort to begin a new life.
Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
…
"Adam is doing well. At least he seems to be. We separated a year ago."
"I'm sorry," he said, but she knew he wasn't.
"Are you still with Diana?"
"Yes. We're still together. Sort of. It's a long story."
She was disappointed.
"I'm happy to hear from you, Patrick," she said, "and I'm also curious about why you're calling me now. What's going on?"
"My daughter's going to NYU. My older daughter. She's a freshman. I'm going to be visiting her soon. I thought that if I was in New York, maybe we could finally have that cup of hot chocolate. It'd be a little late, but…"
She wasn't sure she wanted to see him. More precisely, she wasn't sure she wanted to be seen. Patrick was surely imagining her as the reedy soft-souled girl she'd been at twenty-two. She didn't know if she wanted him to see her as she was, round and saggy. A human beanbag.
A picture of what it would be like to see him flashed across her mind. She saw him waiting on some street corner, smiling and eager, and, then, on first catching sight of her, looking stunned, and struggling to hide his disappointment.
Of course he would try to take account of the years—try to draw a mental portrait of her, like one of
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